My Dog Brought Me Back to Synagogue

I went to services on Yom Kippur for the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long. I wanted to attend Yizkor, the memorial service, to mourn for Ginger—my dachshund, who had died the previous night.

Ginger was the closest thing I’d ever had to a child; since I work from home, she was my constant companion. She’d been found as a puppy on Interstate 95 in North Carolina, covered in filth, missing a collar. We long thought she had been abused or abandoned, since she went after other animals and was suspicious of many humans, especially repairman types. I admired her precisely because she wasn’t one of those agreeable creatures that loved everyone. She was multifaceted: fierce and hilarious, sweet and stubborn, tough but enamored of her creature comforts. She was beautiful in her long-haired wiener dog imperfections: a goofy cowlick, fur trailing from her ears like peyot, and meaty forearms like Popeye.

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